


New Dog, Old Tricks

by Rigel99



Series: To Be a Quartermaster [10]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BAMF James Bond, BAMF Q, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7075258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the old ways are the best ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“In my opinion, Sir, Q belongs in the field in the same way a goat belongs on an ice rink.”

“Fortunately 007, your opinion in this matter is moot,” said the voice from the door to M’s en suite, Bond turning to see Q stroll into the room at that very moment.

“No offence, Quartermaster.”

“Oh none taken, Agent,” replied Q plainly. “It’s not as though you don't find a dozen ways to do just that before you’re even off the plane en route to your next mission.”

“Enough of that gentlemen. Your bickering is enough to drive a man back into the arms of his estranged wife…” muttered Mallory.

A soft tap on the door interrupted, swiftly followed by the shapely form of Eve Moneypenny appearing in their midst. “Sir, the Chancellor for you? Regarding the upcoming budgetary meeting.”

Bond barely inhales a breath only to have his next witty jibe cut short by Q. “It’s not like you need actual explosives to cause things to blow up, 007 so I doubt whatever request you’re going to ask M to drop into the conversation with No 11 Downing Street is also as moot as your opinion on my qualifications.”

“Quite,” agreed Mallory, silently enjoying the manner in which their clever Quartermaster could exercise his oneupmanship skills on their unruly agent. Bond smiled. It would appear he enjoyed it too.

Mallory picked up his phone to take the call while in the same move handed Q the mission brief with his other hand. “Off you go, the pair of you.”

They turned as one to depart their superior’s office.

“Oh and Bond?”

“Sir?” his hand on the door while Q ushered himself to the other side of it.

“Do try and bring our Quartermaster back in one piece.”

* * *

James Bond has made it his secondary mission in life (simply for the cold, hard fact that Queen and Country must come first) to always ensure the Quartermaster remained in one piece. Though usually after he has successfully taken him apart in the first place. Relaxing together in bed the night before a mission he had found was an excellent place to scatter their minds and lose themselves to the pleasure they so easily found in each other.

“Your spine is a mess, Arthur. We’re going to have to work on your posture stuck behind that desk for hours on end.”

“What’s this “we” business? Frankly, James,” he all but huffed in response, “unless you’re planning on early retirement and taking an open university course in engineering and coding, there’s not much to be done about that. Though having said that, you are doing a rather fine job of realign- _nnngggg…”_

“Times like these I’m really not quite sure how I survived this long without a Double-O masseur,” he breathed, words barely audible muffled into the mattress. Mission accomplished, James rolled off his back to lie alongside Q.

“And I’d like you to survive a lot longer if it’s all the same to you,” James replied with casual nonchalance.

Q raised his head, the question on his lips easily read before he got the words out.

“Fieldwork is not for adorable, cardigan-adorned, glass-touting boffins.”

Q scoffed. “What did I tell you about me in my pyjamas, James? Or weren’t you paying attention.”

“I never fail to pay attention to the contents of your pyjamas, Arthur,” quipped James, the smile on his lips not quite reaching eyes scanning the skin beneath his shoulder, the scar tissue from the bullet wound bestowed upon Q by Bond himself standing stark against his otherwise flawless features. He pushed Arthur onto his back and straddled him. He sat there, looking mildly expectant.

Q sighed. “All will be well, James. I have complete confidence in my favourite agent to watch my back. Besides, this could indeed be a red letter day. The first time in the history of MI6 in which you feel completely motivated to bring back Q Branch assets intact. You owe me after all. The many times I’ve all but hauled your precariously balanced backside from the proverbial cliff. And at least one strategically placed sofa…”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” said Bond candidly. “Why you? It’s an MI6 agent’s job to retrieve intel from the field.”

Q interlaced his hands behind his head. James stayed where he was, backside resting lightly on Arthur’s thighs.

“Let’s just say our contact has trust issues with respect to field agents. Easily turned with the right incentive. Once one has established what weaknesses an agent possesses that can be manipulated to advantage.”

Bond didn’t need to work hard to join the dots of such a scenario. “He’s been already burned.”

Q simply nodded. “Orphans have so little to lose,” he murmured, trying to keep the tinge of regret from his tone.

Bond pressed on. It was obvious to Arthur that he had abandoned any pretence at subtle extraction of information in favour of bluntly expressing his concern for the mission. Adorable as he is annoying, he thought. Though he didn’t voice the sentiment. He wasn’t in the mood for a spanking.

“Why is he doing this? Why betray your own nation? Not the kind of person to be trusted in my experience…”

“My my. We are full of curiosity and questions this evening aren’t we, Commander Bond?”

Bond gave him a pointed look and a heated gaze with a promise that evoked an offbeat pulse through his body. “A full brief - warts and all - the more effective makes the agent.” A promise he always made good on.

“When he reached out to me on Darknet and through a series of subtle, coded communications it dawned on me exactly with whom exactly I was interacting, the mutual trust and respect sprang from there.” Q freed his hands from their mutual grip and brought them to rest on the top of James’ thighs. “We had met previously, once - in our former lives.” He allowed his palms to travel up and encircle Bond’s waist.

“Mmmm,” replied Bond, appreciatively. “Should I be concerned about the honour of my Quartermaster?”

“Your Quartermaster can look after himself,” he whispered against his lips, one hand on James’ back, the other on a firm, flexing butt cheek gently guiding him down and manoeuvring him onto his back. “As well as he looks after his agents…”

That’s as good a place to conclude a conversation as any.

For now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Bellevue Palace Hotel, Bern, Switzerland**

Q took a deep breath and rallied his most confident stride. He strolled into the hotel restaurant and took a booth seat. Perusing the menu while he awaited the appearance of his Russian counterpart, effectively the Quartermaster of the FSB, Anatoly Yasov. _Former Quartermaster_ , Q thought to himself, gesturing to a waiter.  Q was intensely intrigued as to how the man had managed to fake his own death and get out of the country. He absently wondered if one day he too would have to take such drastic measures to save or protect himself. He felt an involuntary chill crawl up his spine at the thought. Resisting the urge to make eye contact, he nonetheless glanced with casual interest around the room, his gaze dancing across but not lingering on the agent leaning casually against the bar lavishing his attentions on a lean, leggy dark-haired minx who from her body language looked about a handful more carefully chosen words of seduction from pooling at his feet. Q observed from his peripheral vision while Bond raised his martini glass to his lips and treated it to a caress that was borderline seductive. He couldn’t help a slight tinge of mild surprise when she tilted her head to toss aside her long silken locks to reveal a pair of small-framed glasses. Momentarily distracted by the thought of whether he should later be furious with or flattered by the agent’s singularly focussed tastes in sexual prey, he didn’t notice the arrival of Yasov until the man was standing next to him.

“Pardon me. Is this seat occupied?”

Q looked up at the tall blond looming above him, a far cry from the gangly teenager he had taken on in the semi-finals of the London Junior Chess Championship what felt like a lifetime ago.

“It is now,” replied Q with a smile. The man took the seat opposite, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he did.

“Arthur. You look well,” his thick, Russian timbre puncturing the air between them.

“Antoly. You look… well… you…,” Q replied with a raised eyebrow. He gave a small smile.

“And you still look like a nerdy, wet-behind-the-ears British geek. How on Earth did you reach the gloried heights of MI6’s ranks?”

Though Q didn’t look, he could feel his Double-O’s eyes on them. The waiter placed two glasses in front of the men. “Not much a drinker I’m afraid, Antoly.” The Russian reached for the glass and tipped it into his own. “Waste not, want not,” he replied, tipping the rim towards him before sitting back.

“Do you remember our match, Arthur?”

“Difficult to forget, given the beating you gave me. Some of the most startlingly innovative gameplay I’ve ever seen. I learned a lot that day,” Q stated, the admiration clear and unabashed in his voice. They held each other’s gaze. Q felt himself momentarily distracted by the memory.

Antoly continued to sip. “You castled your King…”

“And you, in less than three moves, promptly wiped the floor with me.”

“And now, here we are. Not a chessboard in sight. And yet…” he let his eyes wander across the room taking in the various patrons dotted around the bar before coming to rest back on Arthur. He leaned forward and rested his hand briefly over Q’s. Q didn’t flinch in response to the warm hand and the feel of the cold metal housing the USB drive in the centre of Antoly’s palm. He withdrew the hand just as Q placed his hand over the back of his own.

“… Once again, you are about to lose your King…” he knocked back the remainder of his drink and stood. It was then Q looked towards the bar.

James had disappeared.

********

**90 seconds earlier**

“You know you’re quite as clever as you look, my dear,” murmured James close to his companion’s ear.

Her laugh was musical. Quite charming. “Better than looking cleverer than you are I suppose.”

“Can’t argue with that,” chuckled James.

“And you, Mr Bond are most definitely just that.”

It was then, much to his chagrin, James felt the slight arrhythmic beat in his chest. He frowned. He’d kept trained and wary senses on her at all times since they connected at the bar. He was all but certain that she hadn’t slipped anything into his drink. He hadn’t, however, been paying attention to the bartender who, while just finished preparing another martini placed it before him and met his steel-blue gaze without batting an eye.

James moved his hand towards the inside of his jacket but his companion stilled the move by placing her own firmly but gently on the crook of his elbow and leaned in. “You look a little shaken, Mr Bond. We don’t want to make a scene on politically neutral territory now, do we? That wouldn’t look good on either of our governments records.”

James placed his hand back on the bar. “What do you want?” he asked, voice betraying no emotion.

She picked up her bag and stood from her stool, knowing he would follow. “I would have thought that was obvious, James. You, of course.”


	3. Chapter 3

James was tied - naked - to a chair. His captor slipped the antidote into his neck before the poison took hold. “Only enough of a dose to disorient you and keep you off balance. All better. For now, Mr Bond,” she added with a dark ghost of a smile.

“What the hell do you want with me?”

“You, James, are mine and Antoly’s retirement plan.”

“Really. Is there a ring of rich and desperate little old ladies in the market for middle-aged spies? Human trafficking standards really have slipped lately…”

She leaned down to look him level in the eye. “Actually you’re half right, James. Ever since you busted up one of the most lucrative business ventures during your mission in Tel Aviv, you with your irrepressible penchant for sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, there’s been a hell of a price on your head.”

“Alive, of course,” she continued. “So the buyers can have a little fun with you before they send you on your merry way.”

“So what is the going rate for an MI6 throwback these days?”

“Five million dollars.”

James tilted his head from side to side as if contemplating the figure.

“What a bargain. Don’t spend it all at once will you. I imagine they’ll be chasing you for a refund.”

He looked down at his naked form. “Where’s my suit by the way? Dry cleaners I hope?”

She gave an exasperated huff. Which was, of course, exactly the response Bond was hoping for. “Do shut up, Mr Bond. You’re starting to grate on my nerves.”

“Just making gentlemanly conversation, my dear.”

“What? You think we don’t know that clever little Quartermaster of yours hasn’t stitched your suit through and through with tracker devices?” She took a seat on the edge of the bed, hand-wielding gun resting casually on crossed legs. “Antoly is taking it for a little spin while you and I await the arrival of the extraction team. And we’ll be long gone before your Quartermaster has time to make contact for support.”

“Lovely.”

“Isn’t it.”

She glanced at her watch. James flexed his wrists to test the bounds. They were - irritatingly - very secure. Her smile was sweet. If you had a taste for antifreeze. “Don’t worry. We won’t be here too long.”

* * *

Q returned to their room. He was in no position to take on Antoly in a public place and with no backup. So, he did what he knew. What he’d always known how to do. All he needed was his laptop. Which was just as well. As that was all he had.

But truth be told, a genius with a laptop was every bit more dangerous than a Double-O with a state-of-the-art sniper rifle.

He plucked the flash drive from his jacket pocket. But wasn’t in the least bit curious to see what was on it right now. The last time he’d put something in his computer from an unknown source had cost him dearly and he had to claw back a considerable amount of his well-established reputation when Silva had demonstrated him to be a “not-so-clever boy.” He pocketed it again and opened his laptop. James was his priority. Nothing else mattered.

Q closed his eyes and imagined himself back in the place where he felt most confident, most certain of every move, every thought and every command voiced. The monitors stationed at his post in Q Branch floated into his mind. Envisioning himself in complete command and control of the situation, this was no different than when James lost contact or fell of the grid for hours, sometimes days at a time. The only difference was Q was here. James was in trouble and he planned on doing something about that.

His fingers moved across the keyboard, his zero to its one, merging and moulding. He’d assisted enough Double-O missions to have upped his game over the last 2 years. It was obviously a covert op, whoever was after James would move in stealth and silence. But he had something they didn’t. Something even James didn't know about. His ace in the hole, only ever to be used when all other avenues were blocked or dead-ended. He smiled when he saw James signal pop up on his screen. He pulled up the schematics of the building and pinpointed his location. He closed the laptop and leaned back to pull the Walther from beneath the pillow where James had always slept with one and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers before calmly leaving the room.

SMART blood is only as good as the man smart enough to know when and how to use it.


	4. Chapter 4

Similarly, the element of surprise was only as effective if your opponent was fool enough to completely underestimate you. Nearly a year in the orbit of James Bond had afforded Arthur Clifton more than irregular but as-frequent-as-inhumanly-possible bouts of mind-blowingly satisfying sex. Out-of-hours time on the gun range, early morning runs and occasional interludes of self-defence indulgences were also part of the relationship agenda. (Think Inspector Clouseau and Kato. Though to be fair, those two never ended up wrestling each other into submission wrapped in satin sheets and buried in fluffy pillows under the observation of two bored-looking felines.)

Above all, his time with 007 had taught Q the most important aspect of running and managing the Agent: Patience. Not that he wasn’t already abundantly endowed with that quality. You don’t spend hours sifting through lines of code and encryption and suffer from uncontrollable frustration if you want to get anywhere with such tasks. Q had known for some time that Bond was on China’s most wanted asset list. The Russians no doubt had been enlisted to secure his capture at a decent price but it couldn’t be done via “official” channels so this play was a means of keeping it off any and all books.

Q mused on these points while standing at the far end of the corridor where he knew Bond was being held, waiting for the extraction team while Antoly attempted to lead Q on a wild goose chase. He kept an eye on his smartphone screen, to which the images from the camera filament was being fed. It wasn’t long before two dark-clad individuals - a man and a woman - turned the corner at the end of the corridor. He waited until they knocked on the door and heard the command in gruff Russian.

“ открыть!”

Q stowed his phone and waited for the door to shut. Pulling out the Walther (with silencer of course), he walked calmly towards the room. He knocked sharply.

“Room Service!” he called, feigning a German accent. He didn’t wait for the door to open, took a step back and fired. He heard the body collapse to the floor with a muffled curse, stepping to the side before a volley of shots penetrated the door. He didn’t hesitate, kicking in the now weakened structure and shot the man, who in that moment was pulling a second weapon from his holster, dead centre between the eyes.

Antoly’s partner-in-espionage was standing, outwardly calm, with a gun pressed to Bond’s head. He winked - _actually winked_ \- at Q. _Cheeky fucker. I suppose he’ll take the credit for this as well,_ he thought to himself.

“Gun down,” she said levelly, though the barest tremor was there, faced with the unpredictability of this development.

“I don’t think so,” replied Q. “It’s not as if you are going to kill your meal ticket in cold blood now, is it? The Chinese would hunt _you_ down for denying them their prize.”

She frowned. Stalemate.

“Say it,” said Q, no hint of compromise in his voice, his eyes or the steady stance with gun trained on her.

She assessed her situation very quickly. Realisation that they had underestimated what they had assumed to be an MI6 desk jockey with no backbone. How wrong they were…

She dropped the gun and raised her hands behind her head. “I seek asylum from the British Government,” she stated flatly through barely gritted teeth.

Q tilted his head as though contemplating the request. “I’ll think about it.” Bond was looking positively impressed by the turn of events. “In the meantime while we await our support team, on the floor my dear, face down.” She complied.

Q stowed the gun back in his belt while he knelt in front of Bond to undo his binds. “Really 007,” he tutted with a smirk, eyes sparkling over the rim of his glasses. “The lengths to which you’ll go to get me on my knees in front of you naked and bound to a chair…”

* * *

They returned to their room while the cleanup team took care of the mess. Q tossed the gun on the sofa inside the door and turned to James who was leaning back against the door, eyeing him up like the winning dish in a Michelin restaurant. Q undid his tie while Bond stalked towards him, wide-eyed predatory intent clear.

“I’m going to fuck you stupid, Arthur.”

“Given my IQ I’d say you’ve got your work cut out for you then, James. Best get on with it.”

The speed at which James extricated Arthur from his clothing was nothing short of physics defying. The Quartermaster was on his back before he realised the position of the bed relative to their own bodies with James standing over him making short work of his hotel-borrowed loose pants and long-sleeve vest.

“Or maybe it would be simpler if I did the honours?” Q enquired lightly, pushing himself onto his elbows. “I doubt either of us are going to last long anyway.”

“Jesus. No matter how many times I’ve tried to bugger the cheek out of you, you still seem to be able to draw on an unlimited reserve of the stuff,” he grumbled good-naturedly before clamping a firm and hungry mouth on his neck.

There is more than one way to shut up a gobby little tart of a nerd and James Bond had a handle on quite a few of them.

He planned on taking his sweet bloody time discovering them all.


End file.
